Authors: Emma Wildes

Tags: #Romance

Lessons From a Scarlet Lady (27 page)

BOOK: Lessons From a Scarlet Lady

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Or maybe she did know, though he’d wager his last coin she hadn’t been kissed often, if ever.

Desire. It whirled in his blood, and clogged his brain, for surely something prompted him to such a rash action as kissing Miss Rebecca Marston.

Robert lowered his head just as he had in the garden a few weeks ago. This time he didn’t merely brush against her, but brought his mouth to hers with light pressure. Soft, subtle, tentative.

Completely unlike any kiss he’d ever given or received. A virginal kiss for her—though he was the farthest thing from an innocent possible. As he’d imagined, she felt like heaven, tasted like purity, and was sublimely perfect in his arms.

Rebecca’s hands settled on his shoulders, her touch as light and delicate as when she bent over the pianoforte, and he stifled a low groan, picturing that same dreamy look on her face. He could feel the rush of blood to his lower body, the urgency of arousal, then the inevitable swelling of his cock against the cloth of his breeches.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Not coaxing her mouth open to delve his tongue deep, not nipping at her soft lips, not imagining her warm and naked in bed beneath him.

It went on. The subtle exchange of breath, the dance of tongue against tongue, the shift as their bodies moved closer and closer . . . his arm fully encircled her now, and surely she could feel his physical reaction, yet instead of being girlishly alarmed, she clung to him with unrestrained passion, twining her arms around his neck.

The rap on the glass of the window shook him out of his madness. Damien called out, “I think the walk Miss Marston and I have taken is over, don’t you? If we are gone too long, her mother will expect me to arrive back and request an audience with Sir Benedict.”

Robert wrenched his mouth away, looked into the eyes of the woman still pressed against him, and wondered if he was downright stupid or just gripped in the fist of lust.

Though his body screamed in protest, he managed to let her go. He bowed. “Your swain awaits.”

She stood there, her mouth damp from his attentions, her chest rising and falling quickly. “We leave tomorrow.”

“I know.” The devil take it, he was hard and hot, his bodily discomfort echoed by his inner turmoil. He wanted this party to end immediately and ease his confusion. If he could only get away from her distracting presence, he would be fine.

He was sure of it.

Almost.

Bloody hell.

“What happens next?” she whispered, the innocent longing in her expression like a knife neatly carving up his soul. “Maybe we can meet later tonight. Once everyone is asleep.”

It was an insane suggestion in an already extremely unreasonable situation. “No,” he bit out too sharply, her suggestion sparking visions of her with her hair unbound, creeping into his bedchamber. “It’s out of the question.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, should your father catch us—and I am going to guess if Damien has noticed our . . .”

“Our?” she prompted when he groped for the right word, looking somehow innocent and alluring at the same time, and exuding a feminine triumph unmistakable in the depths of her beautiful eyes.

He didn’t cooperate by supplying the definition of what he wasn’t sure he could define anyway, but snapped out instead, “If Damien has noticed, your father may have also. I have no desire to meet him on the field at dawn. It would tarnish your reputation and cause you distress. There is no way I would want to injure your father, and the alternative isn’t all that appealing either.” He added abruptly, “I may leave for London early tomorrow.”

God, yes, he needed to get away from her.

She looked at him and said nothing. Then she said without inflection, “I suppose Damien is right and I should go. My mother will be selecting my wedding dress in another five minutes.”

Wedding dress.

If she could have picked better words to bring him back to stark reality, he wasn’t sure what they would be. Robert inclined his head. “Who could blame her? After all, my brother is,” he said in full irony, “an excellent catch. In your father’s eyes, I assure you, I’m not at all in the same category.”

“My father told me to stay away from you,” she admitted. “I don’t understand—”

He made a helpless gesture with his hand that said more than he really intended. “It was something that happened several years ago. I won’t go into the details, but suffice it to say he has the wrong impression and has disdained me ever since. Should I wish to formally court you, I couldn’t.”

“Robert,” she whispered, her lips trembling.

Her tentative use of his first name was the last thing he needed. As calmly as possible, he said, “Rebecca. Go.”

To his relief, she turned and left him.

Chapter Fifteen

I know it is a cliché, but reformed rakes do make
admirable husbands. Why? First of all, their wild
oats are thoroughly sown. The second reason?
They know how to please a woman between the
sheets. Think about it. After all, that is what made
them rakes in the first place.

From the chapter titled: “When You Know, You Know”

I
f her courage held, it would be a miracle. Brianna adjusted her negligee, custom-made for the occasion, and tried to conquer the bevy of butterflies holding court in her stomach.

The nightdress, she reminded herself, was
supposed
to be provocative. He was her husband; he was allowed to see her in any attire, and he had seen her wearing much less in the past.

But it was beyond daring, and obviously meant for seduction.

The neckline plunged down between her breasts, making the gown she’d worn to the opera seem demure. Her arms were bare, there was a slit up both sides of the skirt, and the back dipped so low she was sure if she turned her bottom would peek out.

A good start to what she hoped would be a memorable evening.

Practically
nude, Lady Rothburg advised, could be more alluring than the real thing. Veil yourself in sheer cloth, give him a glimpse of paradise, and then tantalize him into losing his control.

Think like a courtesan.

Maybe she could, but not without a little help from the infamous seductress. It would never have occurred to Brianna to think about keeping Colton intrigued by trying something new, not when he seemed to so enjoy their lovemaking as it was—vastly improved from their less than auspicious beginning. As she looked back on her wedding night, she realized just how little her mother had actually explained about the act of love. A wry smile touched her mouth as she recalled their woman-to-woman “talk.”

Colton had done his very best to relax her, including dousing the lights before he undressed. Which made matters worse because then she really couldn’t see him—and when she felt the hot, erect length of his arousal against her, she’d all but panicked. But the truth was, she was very much in love with her husband and she’d wanted to please him, and once the stinging pain of his first entry had passed, she found she liked the feel of him over her and in her.

She looked forward to it
now
.

No longer a timid young bride, she was going to make this celebration wickedly different from anything else they’d done.

Tonight she was going to seduce him in the most sinful way possible, beguile him, and if Lady Rothburg’s book was correct, satisfy a hidden male fantasy most men declined to acknowledge. Brianna intended this to be their most memorable evening yet.

There had been women before her, she knew that. When she first met Colton, enjoyed the first fateful waltz and fell headlong into the warm glow of love, she hadn’t really given his past a thought. Now, a little older and definitely more sophisticated, she understood he’d been hardly innocent when they married. He wasn’t Robert, but he wasn’t a saint, either.

Good. She didn’t want a saint. She wanted a man crazy with lust for her.

With love, if she was honest with herself, but Colton wasn’t one to talk about his feelings, so she would settle for demonstration until he was ready to acknowledge deeper emotion in a verbal way.

Maybe he would never say it. That disheartening possibility existed, but if she knew he
felt
it, maybe that would be enough.

Brianna ran her brush through her long, loose hair one more time, smoothed the sheer silk at her hips, and turned to survey the room. Candles were lit, a hint of perfume in the air, a bottle of champagne and two glasses by the bedside, the bed turned down invitingly to show cream silk sheets. It was perfect.

All she needed was her husband.

Walking to the door separating their bedrooms, she listened to see if his valet had left for the evening, and upon not hearing voices, opened it a fraction. To make sure she wouldn’t embarrass herself if she was mistaken, she peered through the cracked door.

And caught her breath. Colton was clad only in his breeches, his torso bare. His back was turned to her, and she saw the ripple of hard muscles as he bent to pick up his dressing gown, neatly laid out on the bed.

The timing was perfect. He was undressing and she wanted him undressed. Brianna slipped into the room and walked toward him. “Preparing to retire, darling?”

He swung around and his brows shot up as he took in her attire. He stood frozen in place.

Brianna smiled, hoping her nervousness wasn’t evident. “May I suggest my room?”

For a moment he appeared lost for words, and then he flicked another glance over her very scandalously clad body and said, “Not that I object to what I see, but what if my valet had still been here, Brianna?”

“I listened.” She pointed at the door. Leave it to Colton to scold her even as he stared at her with that promising hungry look in his eyes.

Still holding his robe, he asked with just a slight rasp in his voice, “Did you?”

“I’ve been waiting for you.” She indicated her gown—if one could call a froth of lace that covered nothing a gown—with a small wave of her hand. “It’s your birthday.”

“So it is,” he murmured. “Are the two things connected? My birthday and your ‘waiting’? If that siren’s costume is part of my gift, I gladly accept it.”

“I want to make love to you.”

As she had expected, he misunderstood her meaning, covering the distance between them in three long strides. “It will be my pleasure to oblige you.”

Her palm flattened against his chest as he reached for her. “No, Colton, I wish to oblige
you
. This is my birthday gift. You need do nothing but lie back and enjoy.
I
am going to make love to
you
, not the other way around.”

“Brianna—”

“It is rude,” she interrupted archly, “Your Grace, to churlishly refuse a gift.”

“As if I would decline this one,” he said, holding her gaze. “Fine, then. Since we seem to be playing by your rules, what is it you would have me do?”

She pointed to the door. “Go in there, remove your breeches, and lie down on the bed. You may leave your dressing gown here, as you will not need it.”

“I won’t, will I?” A trace of the pompous duke lingered in his voice. He was used to giving orders, not taking them.

“No,” Brianna responded, holding his heated gaze.

As long as the man in question has a modicum of intelligence and self-confidence, he is intrigued when a woman takes charge in the bedroom. Oh, he will not want it to be this way all the time, for the male of our species feels the need to dominate, especially when sexual intercourse is involved—but trust me, he will find the reversal of your roles exciting now and again.

He walked to the door, glanced back with an unfathomable look on his face, and went into her bedchamber.

Brianna took a deep breath and followed.

She watched as he deliberately unfastened his breeches and shoved them down his lean hips, releasing his erection. Then he lay down on the bed on his back and looked at her, one chestnut brown eyebrow raised in unmistakable challenge, his cock at full attention.

I really can do this,
Brianna assured herself, looking at his blatant arousal. Indeed, she was already halfway there—for he’d cooperated—at least as much as she ever expected him to cooperate.

But what would he do when she tied him up?

She continually surprised him, and that wasn’t always a bad thing. The nightdress, for one—or whatever that concoction of froth that did nothing but showcase her delectable breasts and emphasize the length of her legs could be called. It was something a harlot would wear, yet with her tumbled golden hair and pale, perfect skin, she managed to make it look angelic.

Pure.

As in purely intoxicating.

BOOK: Lessons From a Scarlet Lady

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